The Seventh Hymn

Behind the blindfold, bent over the sofa, Lacey emptied her mind and gave in to the fucking. Dan was a piston -- God, he could fuck. It soon became mechanical, but that actually seemed to be the point: unstinting, stroke after identical stroke, continuous, relentless fucking. It was that simple. She was that full. She was that stretched, and the blooming sexual ache was lovely. At length, Ketch grabbed her hips and slowed his pace; each measured stroke ended with a jolt and a spurt of semen. He was breathing hard -- so was she -- when he slapped her thigh and pulled out. Though she was already bound to the sofa, Lacey felt as though she collapsed into it when Ketchum pulled out and left to clean up.

The next several days established some work routines. Lacey attended to her own stuff in the morning and to his in the afternoon -- so far, he hadn't assigned much. She waited until she had gotten through all four proposals before returning them with her observations. "You were right -- they're all rejects," she reported. Ketch was working in the living room, slouched on the sofa with his laptop. She set down the files and went to the kitchen to make tea.

He was surprised and stopped typing. "I thought one was sort of interesting."

She replied from the kitchen, "Henderson's? Yeah, but she sent the exact same package to Chicago and Toronto."

"How do you know?"

"I have friends," she replied from the doorway with a pleased look.

"Bitch. She knows better than that."

Lacey chuckled. "Yeah, but she's done it before. I'd call her on it if I were you." Lacey returned shortly with two mugs of tea and set one down in front of Ketchum as he scanned her notes. She watched him for a moment before observing casually, "I didn't know you spoke German."

Ketchum didn't look up. "I don't speak it. I read it."

Lacey's curiosity kept her going. "What're you reading? Is it for your project?"

"Yes. I'm doing some translating. Translation and a little commentary...some essays."

"From German..."

"Jesus Christ, Tucker. Yes, from German. Georg Philipp Friedrich Freiherr von Hardenberg. Better known as Novalis."

"Never heard of him," Lacey said airily. "Sounds German, though." She returned to the kitchen. Having disposed of Ketchum's proposals, she had some free time and decided to make a shopping list and restock the kitchen. She knew the supermarket was nearby.

The next day she made lunch and brought it to his office before he could order out. "What's this?" he asked, though the answer was obvious.

"Lunch." It was simple -- a bowl of canned soup and tuna salad -- but better, she had no doubt, than what he was used to.

Ketchum wrinkled his brow. "Why?"

Hands on her hips, Lacey replied, "You told me to make myself useful. Sir."

"Didn't know you had time on your hands, Tucker."

Lacey bobbed an ironic curtsy and left. An hour later she received an email from Ketchum with a link to a shared drive and instructions to proof a manuscript. She groaned when she opened the files and saw there were more than 500 pages. Double-spaced, but still...

The next day she snuck into the kitchen late in the afternoon and put a small chicken in the oven before returning to the bedroom to work. By five o'clock a modest supper was ready: roasted chicken, rice pilaf, salad and bread. She had even located a bottle of wine.

Ketchum knew she was up to something and eventually came to the kitchen to investigate. "What's all this, then?"

"Just a chicken. Some supper."

"I get supper at Scotty's."

"Fine. Go ahead," she made as if to shoo him. "Don't worry about me, I'll clean up here." She smiled sweetly.

Roasted chicken is a hard thing to walk out on, and Lacey knew what she was doing. Ketchum stayed. As it turned out, he even knew how to carve the bird. Lacey made a mental note; she should have boiled some carrots or beans or something to go with it.

"Tell me about your German friend?" she ventured. As they shared the chicken, she learned that Novalis was an 18th century German poet, mystic (whatever that was), romanticist (ditto), philosopher, novelist, and political theorist. He had died more than 200 years ago, before the age of 30. Tuberculosis. Ketchum was translating some of his work and writing an essay to accompany each translation.

"What about the rest of his life? Did he have a wife? A lover?" Lacey asked.

Ketchum pondered the question. "No," he said finally, "He had a fiancé, Sophie von Kühn, about whom he was twitter-pated, evidently. She died before they could marry. Later there was a second fiancé, but then he died before they married."

"Twitter-whatever -- that means 'in love'? Bummer."

"Obsessively. Yes, bummer," Ketch agreed and excused himself. Lacey did the dishes, wondering how Ketchum had become interested in this German character. When she finished, she stood and considered the kitchen -- it was under-equipped but had most of the basics. Maybe she should bring in her slow cooker. An earlier search had located Ketchum's supply of Scotch. She poured a double, neat, and delivered it to his office. "Cheers," she said, "I'm leaving." Ketchum pried his eyes from his screen, looked at the Scotch, then at her, and nodded. "Thanks."

Friday morning Ketchum introduced Lacey to Rose, his fifty-something Brazilian housecleaner. Rose cleaned the kitchen and bathrooms and tidied up here and there; she also started laundry -- linens first -- in a small room Lacey hadn't noticed. Garbed in scrubs, Lacey was embarrassed to meet a stranger. She cringed to imagine what Rose assumed was going on, then realized the reality was actually worse.

"Oi, como você está?" Lacey greeted Rose. Rose brightened and responded in a blizzard of Portuguese. Lacey laughed sheepishly and confessed, "Oops. Sorry -- that's the only Portuguese I know." Rose enjoyed the joke and smiled again. "Thank you. I am happy to meet you, Miss Lacey."

A little later, Ketchum stuck his head in the guest room. "Any laundry for Rose? She'll do the scrubs."

Lacey glanced at a small pile of clothes in the corner. She planned to wash them herself. "No thanks." She added, wryly, "I wouldn't want her to see the ripped ones."

"Don't worry, I threw those out. But suit yourself."

Late Friday afternoon Ketchum summoned Lacey to his bedroom. After some thought, he had decided it was time to tie her up with real rope and do her ass. Why? He had pretty much told her it was coming during her interview. She could have left, but she didn't. True, she hadn't liked the butt plugs, but she'd tolerated them, and graduated during the week to a decent size. Besides, he figured, once she'd had enough nympho fun, she most likely would leave. In fact, she might not return next week and they both knew it. Ketchum figured it was now or never.

Lacey suspected it was coming. She reported to Ketch's bedroom ready to slip out of her role as batman and prepared to let Ketch take her however he chose. To her great surprise, she wasn't nervous, even when she saw the Astroglide and rope on the bed. Ketchum directed her to remove her top -- at least he didn't rip it -- before he placed the familiar blindfold. "Good week, eh Tucker? I owe you some fun."

Lacey couldn't help retorting, "Oh, you're not having any?"

"Don't make me gag you," he replied with a laugh has he unsnapped her bra. He allowed himself a tit-grope before untying her pants and skinning off her panties. Once she was naked and he had admired her body, he had her lie on her back on the bed and open her legs. Then he began looping and wrapping ropes around each ankle. The rope was tighter than the cuffs but at least it was soft. Lacey's stomach fluttered as she apprehended that she was naked and obscenely open. She was being tied, literally, and was well past being able to prevent it. Ketchum had her sit up and proceeded to rope a wrist to the inside of each ankle. He seemed to know what he was doing, though Lacey couldn't see the work. He wasn't finished. He then placed a loop just below each knee and bound her forearms to her calves. By the time he stopped to admire his work, Lacey was well trussed and aroused. He was pleased with the result.

He tipped her roughly onto her back, which elevated her feet and arms, exposed her pussy and ass, and nearly knocked the wind out of her. "I got Lacey a present, Tucker," he said, and slipped a vibrator into her pussy. An egg shape nestled inside her -- it was chilly at first -- and a smaller bulb-shaped piece curved out and came to rest on her clit. "Nice, eh?" he asked. He got off the bed and picked up her phone to snap some photos for her. Then he picked up his own phone to activate the vibrating egg. Lacey moaned. Pleased with himself, Ketchum grinned and tested the bluetooth control by sending whirring pulses to her G-spot. "Don't worry, I'll put the app on your phone, too." With another tap he activated the vibrator on her clit. She would have jumped if she could.

He dragged her toward the side of the bed, then wrestled her over onto her knees, forcing them apart. With her plugged ass in the air, her breasts just grazed the bedspread; her head and shoulders were planted on the mattress. Ketchum dialed up the vibrations a couple of notches and observed Lacey's heaving response as he undressed.

He was nude and Dan was raging when he climbed onto the bed behind her. As he prepared to penetrate her, Ketchum recalled with amusement their strained encounter at Scotty's barely a week earlier. Smiling, he eased the plug out of her ass. As it slid out, Lacey felt the egg in her pussy shift and immediately missed the plug. Ketchum set it aside and lined up Big Dan with her anus. He applied a spot of lube, then pushed in steadily. "Ahh...Lucy, meet Dan." It was snug, but the plug had done its job.

The first thing Ketchum felt was the tight, steaming grip of her colon. The second was the buzzing egg in her vagina, under his cock, and it was a revelation. "Ho. Ly. Shit. Holy shit, Tucker."

"Yes, sir. Holy shit," she breathed.

"We've got everyone, Tucker. You, me, Lacey, Lucy, Dan...and we're all getting vibed. Holy shit." He reached for his phone to experiment with the vibration options. There were too many to try but they all felt amazing. And...holy shit...Tucker herself had two vibrators. What must that feel like? Part of him wanted to simply hold still and absorb the otherworldly sensations, but another part wanted to pump. The latter, more primitive urge won out and he began thrusting. It wasn't rapid or violent, but deliberate, deep and rhythmic. He maintained a stately pace, lest he climax too soon and break the spell, the heavenly cock-in-her-ass fucking spell. He had never felt it before, nothing like this. It was unbelievably good, and he knew it would end too soon.

Lacey was somewhat less comfortable, but she embraced the discomfort -- the taut bindings and the near-bursting fullness in her cunt and ass. Lacey and Lucy. Every stroke rearranged her guts and repositioned the egg. Though Dan's rampage created some internal havoc, it wasn't painful, just...filling. Ketchum's balls occasionally slapped Lacey and punctuated the buzzing stimulation of her clit. She could feel a distant orgasm approaching. Behind her blindfold she thought and, under her breath, perhaps even whispered, "Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck..."

She actually climaxed before Ketchum -- softly, with a mewling cry. He was close behind, throwing his head back and clenching his teeth as he painted her colon. Afterward, they panted together, him draped on her bound frame. Their orgasms had briefly drowned the buzzing of the toys, but even as they rested, the vibrators kept going. "Turn it off, sir?" Lacey finally requested. Mostly, her clit needed a break. Ketchum stirred himself, searched for the phone and obliged. He flopped onto the bed next to her, beaming with satisfaction. Eventually he rose and said, "Take ten, Tucker. I'll be back." He left to take a quick shower and Tucker fell over on her side, her extremities still roped together. She was somewhere else entirely, lost in TD&F Land.

Soon Ketchum returned, invigorated. He untied Lacey and removed the heroic toy from her vagina. At last, she was empty. Ketchum dropped a fluffy robe and towel on the bed and said, "Amazing, Tucker. Get a shower when you're ready." She removed her blindfold but remained on the bed, pulling the robe over herself. Immediately she wondered, "And just why the fuck does he have a spare robe?"

By the time Lacey emerged from the shower, got dressed, packed her things, and joined Ketchum in the living room, he was relaxing with a Scotch. He'd brought the bottle and an extra tumbler. He pointed to it. They smiled easily as Lacey poured a finger for herself. "Let's get a bite, Tucker," Ketchum proposed.

"Scotty's? No thanks. I'm heading home." She smiled bashfully. "It's been sort of a long week." Ketchum raised his glass with a nod of acquiescence and wondered if he'd see her again. She swallowed her bit of Scotch. "Hey, you can finish up the chicken, but save the carcass, okay? Put it a zip-lock." She set her glass down and picked up her bag and pack. "I'll use it to make stock." Evidently, she planned to return.

Back home, Lacey briefly considered declaring a successful end to TD&F. However, she actually spent much of the weekend researching Novalis. Saturday night she drew a hot bath and sipped red wine from a plastic cup while lounging in the tub. Then she switched to the shower and lathered up Lacey for a shave.

The Second Week

She arrived at Ketch's Monday with her slow cooker and two prepped recipes for it, a beef stew and pork with green chilis. She figured stew first and put the pork in the refrigerator. She dumped the marinated stew makings in the cooker, plugged it in and turned it on. She planned to have it done before midday and let it rest. Later she would degrease and reheat it to deepen the flavor. She was excited to be back -- she wanted to see what Ketchum was writing about Novalis -- but was deflated when he entered the kitchen looking for coffee and asked about the manuscript he had assigned her. Shit! She had forgotten all about it.

"Still working on it," she said, and was relieved when he dropped the subject. She had plenty of her own work but made a point to do some proofing in between phone meetings and kitchen projects. The latter included stew and now chicken stock. She'd brought the basics for stock -- onions, carrots, celery. She hoped Ketchum had saved the chicken carcass as requested and that she could scare up some herbs; she figured as long as he had salt, pepper and thyme she'd manage.

By the end of the day she was dragging. She'd made a damned fine stew -- she knew Ketch would compare it to Scotty's -- and a decent batch of stock, but not gotten a lot of work done. As they ate, she asked Ketchum again about his work. "So, what are you translating?"

He swallowed before answering. "I told you. Novalis."

"I know. I mean which Novalis."

"There's only one so far as I know."

Lacey scowled. "You know what I mean."

He raised his eyebrows. "You've been investigating, I take it." She nodded, waiting for an answer, and he obliged. "'Hymns to the Night.'"

"But those have been translated."

He shrugged. "Everything has. Just not very well."

Eager to show some knowledge, Lacey recited: Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.

"Now you're showing off," he responded, but supplied Novalis's original: Die Poësie heilt die Wunden, die der Verstand schläg.

It was no use pretending she knew much, but she still wanted to talk. "He wrote the Hymns after Sophie died."

"I know."

Lacey added, "She was only twelve!"

"Twelve when they met, thirteen when they got engaged. Had just turned fifteen when she died."

"Are you writing about her? In your essays?"

Ketchum shook his head. He rose and put his plate in the sink. "She was a half-wit." He paused before leaving the room. "That was good stew, Tucker."

She called after him, "Can I read your stuff?"

He turned and shook his head. "You have a manuscript to proof, no?"

"Shit," she muttered when he was gone.

She did have a manuscript to proof, and a hundred other things to do, too. Back at her apartment that night, she stayed up late to work on the manuscript. It was not the best way; she knew that a tired reader is a shitty editor. Accordingly, she was extra careful, but that made her extra slow. She was fagged all the next day, but then did the same thing the next night, finally finishing at four in the morning.

She overslept and got to Ketchum's house at ten. When she rushed in wearing green scrubs Ketchum called from his office, "You're late!" In truth, he was relieved -- he'd begun to wonder if she had decided to quit. Minutes later, he found her in the kitchen, hurriedly putting things in the refrigerator. She shut the fridge and leaned back against it with a wan smile. "Jesus, Tucker, you look like shit."

"Gee, thanks," she said, then added, "I finished proofing."

"Good. Where is it? On the drive?" She nodded. "I'll look at it later." He filled his coffee mug and left.

Ketchum was glad she had finished the manuscript -- sooner than he expected, actually -- but he could tell Lacey was stumbling, barely awake, for the second day in a row. More than once, he urged but did not order her to take a break. She would insist she was fine and rouse herself again. Later, as he paced in the living room, Ketchum noticed her in the guest room, sitting on the floor by the bed, her legs folded beneath her, laptop open on the bed. She wasn't typing, or even moving. Her head was on the bed and she was dozing. Ketchum fetched her cuffs from his office and tossed them onto the floor beside her. She woke, startled, and blinked. "Sorry," she said.

"Okay, that's enough, Tucker, put 'em on," he said, and left to fetch some rope. "In here!" he called from his bedroom. She entered warily, not sure what he intended. He threw back the bed covers and pointed. "Up there." She climbed onto the bed, still in her scrubs, and gave him a questioning look. "On your back." "Yes, sir." He connected her right wrist to a bedpost, leaving some slack in the tie down. The left wrist he tied to her ankle; she could raise it to her waist but no farther. Then he stuffed a pillow under her head and covered her with the bedspread. "Take a goddamn nap, Tucker." He switched off the light and left. Lacey closed her eyes in grateful, amused exhaustion.

Ketchum checked on her periodically. She slept peacefully -- snoring, even -- until mid-afternoon. After she woke Ketchum freed her. "Mmm, thank you, sir," she said with a languid smile.

"Whatever."

So refreshed was she that Lacey was not interested in work -- not work work at any rate -- she would rather be in the kitchen. It was too late for pork and green chilis, but she had other options. She decided to bake some cod, finished with ginger, soy, and scallions. Plus rice and sautéed peppers -- it would do. As she was slicing peppers, Ketch came in, dropped a folder on the table and left without speaking. Intrigued, she set down her knife, rinsed and wiped her hands and picked up the folder. Right away, she recognized it as a poem and an essay. Excited, she carried the open folder to the doorway and called out, "Hey! This is yours!"

It was indeed, but they did not talk about it at supper. Lacey hadn't actually read it yet. For his part, Ketchum had misgivings about even showing it to her. So they avoided the topic and instead had a ridiculous conversation about cod, the origins of soy sauce, and the Patriots' offense. Lacey grasped that they were not to talk about Novalis and cooperated. Mostly, she wanted to finish supper, clean up, and get home so she could read what he had written.